A DIFFERENT VIEW
I'm caught among these sombre hills,
Trapped in the moist, dank air of narrow valleys
Where stones from blackened mills lie
In tumbled, twisted heaps upon the turf.
The harsh winds blow across these moors
To blast dismal sheep who wander there,
No white and wooly lambkins these
But coarse-grained fleeces tainted by the dust of towns.
Man raped this land which lies denuded now,
Bare of forests, ripped and torn of stone.
The bog grass thrives and water flows
Still stained by sins of long ago;
And this not all, for even now I hear the river sigh
Against a worn-out tractor tyre and see it
Throw its strength against a rusted metal sheet
And play its music on an old super-market trolley.
The kingfisher is back or so I'm told.
Oh foolish bird, when he could fly
To far off crystal streams in woodlands green
Where lichen hangs on every broken bough
As witness to the pure, clear atmosphere.
My wings are clipped by circumstance and duty, even love,
So here I bide and look upon these scenes with rueful eye
And hold within my mind a different view.
Copyright Norah E. Bishop 1992